Blasts from the Past

 

Chilly, wild winds whip the Japanese Lilac tree around like Ozzy Osbourne’s long brown hair in a 1970 Paris gig. I feel dizzy watching the branches whirl like a headbanger’s hair, and the wind’s roar makes me want to wrap a pillow around the ears under my short gray bob.

 

The press called that 1970 concert monstrous, but I doubt it was as monstrous as the finale of the 1964 movie My Fair Lady. When I noticed the movie on TV last night, I thought a musical might be a pleasant way to end the evening. I had fun singing along, surprised I knew all the words. But then, why wouldn’t I? My girlfriend and I spent months dreamily twirling around the living room while singing all the lyrics to all the songs in all the musicals of the 1960s. I’m surprised our parents didn’t wrap pillows around their ears. Maybe they used more discreet ear plugs, who knows? Although I remembered lyrics, I didn’t remember plot details. Last night, even when it was becoming clear what a pompous jerk the professor was, I kept singing. But when the plot got to Rex Harrison’s charmingly delivered song, “Why can’t a woman be more like a man?” words stumbled off my tongue until I just sat, mouth agape. How horrible that in the 1960s we girls thought Audrey Hepburn’s coming back to be treated in a condescending manner was romantic. Yuck.

 

On a less horrific note, today’s paper carries the obituary of a London fashion designer who focused on youthful styles: Mary Quant. Remember Mary Quant? Her 1960s miniskirts and hot pants? In retrospect, embarrassing, but at the time, weren’t we chic? And Quant’s iconic haircut? It was so short, the large, signature curls on each cheek were hardly long enough to twirl around one’s little finger. She was a key figure in what was dubbed The Swinging Sixties. Swinging? I don’t know about that. In the 1960s I was not swinging anywhere. But I felt very stylish when I purchased a Mary Quant lipstick in London in 1975. Might be one of very few in-vogue things I’ve done in my life. Mary Quant was 93 when she died. She’d seen some fashion swings, for sure.

Postman ~ tears, troubles, and tribute

 

Yesterday a girlfriend and I shared stories about our treasured Hummel figurines. We each have one statuette, long-ago broken and sloppily glued, but valued for memories it evokes. Hummel’s name for my figurine is Postman. When we cleaned out my aunt’s condo after she died, I immediately claimed Postman to remember her by; Aunt Pat was a prolific letter and postcard writer. My sister said, “You know, most Hummels don’t sell for much.” But I didn’t care, because I didn’t plan to sell Postman. Every day of the eighteen years since Pat died, I have looked at Postman on my dresser and felt the bright warmth of someone who so often thought of me.

 

By all accounts, my years were blessed with much happiness. But I also had hurts. I was lonely. I struggled deciding how best to handle relational conflict and life transitions. I buried troubles, carried burdens. Like everyone, I experienced a little heaven, a little hell. But whatever my wows or worries, when I saw one of Aunt Pat’s missives in my mailbox, I felt loved. She was thinking of me! In the midst of her busy life, she sat down and jotted me a line.

 

Discussing my Hummel Postman with my friend yesterday transported me back to the weeks before Aunt Pat’s death. When a stroke hospitalized her, my uncle tearfully pleaded with me to come for support. I did. It was a heart-wrenching time. My brother-in-law, who was nearby for business, joined my uncle and me. My uncle and Pat had had theater tickets for one night that week. I wanted to stay back at the condo to e-mail my shocked family all the medical drama, as everybody was eager for updates. But my uncle and brother-in-law went to the play.

 

Surprisingly, they returned laughing hysterically. When they relayed the evening’s hilarity, tears of laughter streamed down our cheeks. First, while walking to their seats, my uncle face-planted in the aisle. Once seated, the woman next to him asked loudly if anyone had a pen she could use. So everyone in their row and the row behind tried to help by calling out, “Anyone have a pen?” When no one produced a pen, the woman said, “Oh well, I guess I’ll have to use my own.” So that was ridiculously silly. And then my uncle laughed, “And for those who didn’t see it the first time, I belly-flopped again!” Oh, how we needed that tension reliever. A few days later after leaving my aunt’s hospital room for what I suspected would be the last time, I collapsed in a puddle of grief, saved from crashing to the floor by my quick-thinking brother-in-law. The only sliver of light in our dark misery was that funny incident at the theater.

 

This morning, as I recalled my uncle’s timely tale of levity, I dissolved laughing at the memory of that much-needed respite. In a flash, however, I found myself sobbing at the sadness of all my losses of beloved people over the last twenty or so years. Sometimes, one’s grief is simply overwhelming.

 

What to do with my grief? My pep talk to myself is this: Feel it, work through it, of course. Lament. Realize that even though your Aunt Pat’s postage stamps no longer tell you you’re thought of, your heavenly Father does. Psalm 139 says How precious are your thoughts toward me. Furthermore, I’m the apple of His eye. (Psalm 17) He rejoices over me with singing. (Zephaniah 3) No stroke or postage stamp rate hike can take those from me. Choose joy. Let your Postman figurine prompt memories of love over your lifetime . Find the good, the laughable. Be kinder. Draw near to others.

 

And—in tribute to my Aunt Pat—Jot someone a line to let her know you’re thinking of her. As a bonus, enclose something humorous to bring laughter into whatever tension or sadness she feels or add to her joy.

So, “Anyone have a pen?”

No? “Well, I guess I’ll use my own.”

I'll Never Be French by Mark Greenside ~ my review

I'll Never Be French is so enjoyable, I have just read it twice in three months. I identify with so many of Mark Greenside's observations and anecdotes. I've also been perplexed in Paris' monstrous train station with no elevator. I have my own hilarious language bloopers from dozens of France's farmers markets. I've been the pathetic "project" French ladies took pity on. Being an American in France, I realized very quickly, I'll Never Be French. This memoir is laugh-out-loud funny. Greenside takes cross-cultural challenges in humble good humor and gives the reader entertaining French immersion stories.

In addition, Greenside makes insightful observations about cultural differences. These are sprinkled throughout the memoir but highlighted in his birthday party with both American and French guests. In all my visits to France, I've sensed this or that cultural norm, but Mark Greenside articulates these so well.

People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks ~ my review

Geraldine Brooks’ historical novel, People of the Book, reminds me of a double helix. One strand is the story of rare book expert, Hanna Heath, working on the famous Sarajevo Haggadah, and tending to family business that turns out to be life-changing for her. The other strand of the helix is the story of the origins and journey of the rare Haggadah. The links between the strands are what Hanna finds in the ancient pages—a white hair, a feather, blood, wine, saltwater, an insect’s wing. To identify these finds, she solicits help from scientific experts in those fields. Each expert identifies the country and time period and even altitude of the object, and then Brooks imagines a story of the Haggadah in the midst of people who might have lived then and there. Oddly, Hanna Heath never sees these stories. So the two strands of the helix never meet.

 

As this helix spirals backward through the Haggadah’s history, the reader glimpses life in 1940 Sarajevo, 1894 Vienna, 1609 Venice, 1492 Tarragona, 1480 Seville. Each of these imagined stories involves persecution of Jews, thus endangering the existence of the precious Haggadah. These are tales of hatred, cowardice, and heroism.

 

This novel is challenging; you might want to have a dictionary and atlas handy. Or just remember, as I didn’t, that the Haggadah’s global journey is mapped out in the first pages. I liked People of the Book because it is interesting and brilliantly written. Besides that, I liked it for some miscellaneous reasons.

 

Okay, I’ll admit the nerdiest one first: Working in a history museum, I learned paper conservation techniques. Not in a million years did I ever anticipate reading a novel about paper conservation. A novel by a Pulitzer Prize-winning author, no less!

 

Second, as a follower of the Hebrew Jesus Christ, I consider the Israelites my ancestors and current sharers of the Old Testament of the Bible. Hatred for Jews has been a real head-scratcher for me. Why? Why? Why? Each of Geraldine Brooks’ historical vignettes illuminates various historical, oh-so-human reasons for this hatred. Horrifying … sobering … educational.

 

Third, I love Brooks’ creative imaginings of scenarios, why this person would have been in possession of a valuable illuminated manuscript, the argument characters were having when a drop of wine splashed on the book, everyone’s secret sins and longings, daring escapes. In your genealogy research, isn’t it your ancestors’ stories you crave? Well, Brooks delivers.

 

Fourth, I find ancient illuminated manuscripts extremely beautiful, and I have a certain reverence for the fingers that inked them. Maybe another nerdy reason for me to like People of the Book, but really, how can a person not gasp in awe when viewing gold, crimson, and blue illustrations of gorgeous calligraphy text? All hand-done from personal convictions. Labors of love.

 

Interestingly, although the darker stories in this novel are briefly lit by love, the strongest love story of the novel is love for the book, the Haggadah.

 

Ratatouille—Or brown isn't all bad

 

As autumn approaches, my farmers market picks reflect my hang-on-to-summer mood. I want peaches and blueberries as long as possible. I’m not ready for apples. When I can no longer get fresh local peaches, I will buy those farmers’ apples and be happily up to my elbows in homemade applesauce, cinnamon wafting through the kitchen. Just not yet.

Part of holding on to summer is a preference for milder temps, but also, I prefer summer’s greens, bright reds, peach blush, and blues to autumn’s oranges and browns. When I made my traditional ratatouille last weekend, I lined up the veggies on the counter just to enjoy their colors. Eggplant is purple! Even the garlic has purplish stripes. Green zucchini and parsley. Red tomatoes, and a red pepper I forgot to get in the picture. The first sauté looked so bright.

 

But when I added the eggplant, the whole dish took on a brown effect. Cooked eggplant is no longer a summer color; it is a grayish brown, like winter’s dirty slush. Ratatouille’s flavors simmered together taste amazing in any season, but I don’t enjoy looking at the cooked dish. In a couple hours prep time, it goes from looking like summer to looking like winter. (Seems like a good spot here for a joke about aging or an adage about life transitions or positive focus, but I’m too tired to think of one.)

 

As fall inevitably encroaches, I’ll have to keep reminding myself of all the things I love that are in fact brown—squirrels (majorly cute), Paddington Bear (endearing), turkey gravy (yum), oh, and applesauce after a major cinnamon dump.

The Right Kind of Fool ~ my review

I lost count of the number of times I paused reading Sarah Loudin Thomas’ novel, The Right Kind of Fool, because it was just too scary. I thought, “If thirteen-year-old Honor is going to climb out the bedroom window and run off into the nighttime forest on Rich Mountain yet AGAIN, I am going to have to wait till daylight to pick up this story.” Then I’d put the book down until a time not so near my bedtime. Sometimes I was so afraid for Honor’s safety that I’d wait days, but then my curiosity and trust in the gentle voice of the author won out.

 

In the summer of 1934, a man is murdered on the mountain, and Honor finds the body. His father and the sheriff investigate. Honor’s father and mother are still at odds after many years of living apart, he on the mountain and she in the small town of Beverly, West Virginia. Honor, who is deaf, is smart, sensitive, and observant enough to have significant clues to the murder, if he can successfully communicate them. During the murder investigation, suspects deny, confess, and dodge, resulting in many plot twists—many involving the dense forest on Rich Mountain.

 

I love how Sarah Loudin Thomas tenderly unfolds layers of Loyal’s and his father’s and mother’s emotional vulnerability. Regarding relational roles, it is a testimony to author Thomas’ storytelling skill how each character brings his own motives into the light, ponders them, figures out the right thing to do, and chooses to change and grow. The Right Kind of Fool is truly a redemptive story. In fact, if I had not trusted the author based on her gentle voice in another novel, I probably would have abandoned this novel after the second or third scary part. Thomas has crafted an intriguing, positive, character-driven mystery here.